Chapter Five
The coffee was instant. Hayden apologized for the inconvenience, as he was a tea drinker and never had the need for a coffee maker in the rectory. “And no matter who you are, don’t think I’ll drag up one of those missile silos they use downstairs after services just for one cup.”
They sat in the pastor’s small but comfortable living room, adorned with photos of Ralph and Jean Hayden, highlights of the couple’s life together. The Haydens had no children. Nathan never knew if this was by choice. Seeing the many tributes to his wife around the room, Nathan felt a pang of sorrow that the man had no other family now except for the people of the church. It appeared to be more than enough for him.
Over the course of the day they’d briefly gone through the books in the office, his new pastoral schedule and a quick background on current patients who needed visitations at hospitals and nursing homes. Hayden wanted as much minutiae covered before news of Nathan’s arrival spread. They’d have less private time after today.
After a supper of meatloaf, broccoli, and potatoes heated in the microwave—precooked meals were supplied each week by two elderly parishioners—they’d settled upstairs. Hayden’s eyes drooped. It was nearing nine-thirty. He was obviously an early sleeper. He sipped his tea and said, “I’ve been blessed these years to have such a caring congregation, especially since Jean passed on. Having a new pastor after so long with the same shepherd isn’t an easy thing for people to adjust to. Shakes up the parish. Seeing as how you’re someone a lot of people know, the transition might be a little easier. Just try to forget that some in your flock have seen you wearing diapers.”
Nathan smiled and sipped his coffee, hoping no one pictured him that way when he gave his sermon.
“I have to say,” Hayden continued, “I was always proud of your decision. Today’s kids get so caught up in the world, even when their faith is strong. Choosing to serve God as you have seems rare.”
Nathan agreed. All his life, his own calling had never been questioned, neither by his parents nor himself. He’d always felt a burning to give his life to the church. Maybe he hadn’t always known in what capacity that would come—who did, when they were young? By high school, he knew his direction. His classmates made college plans, having only vague images of what they’d do with their lives. Whenever Nathan was asked what he planned after graduation, his reply never changed. I’m going to earn a Masters of Divinity and become ordained, run my own church someday, somewhere.
Most would laugh and say, No, seriously. Except for his best friend Josh Everson who would nod, expecting no other answer. Even Elizabeth, aside from an occasional but loving jab, never tried to convince him otherwise. In those years she had enough influence in his world that questioning his decision could have changed his path forever. The fact that, in the end, he took this path without her, was a hurt only slightly lessened over the past few years.
The old man was staring with his usual intensity. Nathan raised his eyebrows inquisitively as he sipped the last of his coffee.
Hayden’s gaze softened. “It’s good to see you again, Nate. It’s a rare thing to have a pastor emerge from one’s own parish. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to retire from God’s service.” He looked down then, not saying what Nathan assumed he was thinking. Retiring with the woman he’d loved beside him would have been one alternative. For the first time, Nathan saw vulnerability on the old man’s face.
He cleared his throat and whispered, “Do we ever truly retire from His service, Reverend?”
Hayden chuckled. “No. No, I suppose not. Even so, over the next couple of weeks, I trust you’ll pay attention.” Back to business, his voice stronger. “I’ve reserved a cell in the Christ The King monastery a few towns away, in Leicester, a sort of devotional vacation for lack of a better term.” He smirked. “Basically getting myself out of your hair for a while to let you get established. I think after whatever introduction I can offer you or the parish these next two weeks, I’ll just be in the way.”
“You won’t be in the way,” Nathan said. “Please, stay as long—”
Again the hand cut off his words. “I already have. Time for me to step aside before I start drooling all over the pulpit. You’ll have enough to keep you busy without worrying about me every day. Besides, this old place isn’t big enough for both of us. When we go over the books in more detail, I’ll show you the separate account the elders set up for me. It covers rent of a room on Grazen Street for when I get back from the monastery, plus a stipend for food, et cetera. And the fine ladies who fed you tonight have already insisted on continuing to cook their wonderful meals for me.”
Nathan laughed at the man’s smug grin. “So,” he said, “you’re taking the cooking staff with you.”
Another dismissive wave of his hand, and Hayden used the ensuing lapse in conversation to excuse himself to bed. He directed Nathan to the couch in the living room where a pull-out bed was hidden beneath the cushions. It would be his bedroom for the next two weeks.
Nathan returned downstairs alone. He quietly wandered among the rooms, eventually finding himself at the entrance to the church-proper. This section of the house—taking up two-thirds of the overall building—was the reason for Hayden’s abbreviated living quarters. Here, the church hall rose the full two stories, looking too big to fit into the house when viewed from outside, an illusion caused by the tall stained glass windows in the front and outside walls. A spacious, calm setting. Standing with the hallway leading into the kitchen behind him, Nathan reached out and touched the edge of the sanctuary railing on his right, but did not step all the way into the church. Everything smelled and looked as he remembered from his childhood. The small altar resting against the back wall, the similarly understated podium nearer the pews. With only the light from the hall behind him, he could not make out any details of the stained glass. Come morning, the room would glow with an inspiring brilliance.
Tonight, empty rows of dark benches. His view of services would be from this perspective from now on. During the selection process for the new pastor, he was required twice to preach from this pulpit. He’d been a guest on those occasions, an amusing spectacle to those who saw him only as little Nate Dinneck, all grown up. Things felt different now. He was pastor.
Nathan stayed in the doorway for a while longer, mind blank, taking the room in, feeling it, then finally turned and walked back through the kitchen and climbed the narrow staircase to the living room. The mattress had already been pulled from the couch, a sheet and heavier blanket folded neatly atop it. He made the bed, knelt beside it and prayed. For strength, and attentiveness over the next two weeks as the man who built this church turned over his life’s work to someone else.
Nathan also prayed that, whatever the reasons God had for bringing him home, he would be able to serve Him with everything he had. In any way He chose.
Chapter Six
The dream was different this time, as details of those which came before returned with sharp clarity.
The sky was still the red of an eternal sunset; the sand still blew across his shoes. Nathan stood on a hill, looking down into a valley through which the long line of hooded worshippers marched toward the temple. They were close to their destination, nearing the steps leading to the massive, open doors. In past dreams, the monk-like figures had always been traveling toward the temple, but had never reached the steps. Each time, they drew closer.
Nathan was wearing the black vestments of a Jesuit priest, black shoes this time, not sneakers. He dug these into the sand in anticipation of the inevitable pull from the distant structure, waited to be lifted into the air toward the horrifying darkness inside. It did not come. Maybe he was far enough away.
Smoke rose out of the door, swirling into a tempestuous but almost familiar form. Cloud-like arms stretched from its amorphous body, collapsed back, stretched out again. It was like seeing a birth, the emergence of a demon revealing its shape in dust and smoke. It rose above the temple, d
warfing the structure with its own formidable size.
The glow of the sunset burned through the demon’s body in a red aura. The light focused, reformed into molten eyes. These eyes cast a burning light across the hooded procession, further back along their ranks. Traveling, searching for something. Drawing closer.
Nathan understood, as one could only understand such things in a dream, that the eyes were searching him out. He tried to turn, run down the opposite side of the hill, hide from the searching gaze of the monster floating above the temple. He couldn’t move. The demon’s light moved past the worshippers, up the sand dune, then shone across Nathan’s face. He raised his hands to shield himself. His arms literally burned in the heat. His sleeves burst into flame. The paralysis ended. Nathan threw himself backwards and rolled down the sand dune.
The smell of burning flesh, like overcooked bacon. He buried his arms in the hot sand to extinguish the fire. A voice called to him—his father’s voice. Nathan, it said, you are the chosen, the first born. You are the sacrifice.
He wanted to scream, but dared not open his mouth. His hair was on fire. Rather than extinguish the flames, the sand fed them, and they spread down his back. He rolled down the dune, burning, feeling no pain but sensing his body blackening to ash.
He reached the bottom of the hill, curled and thrashing, unable to scream. The smoky demon passed overhead with a tail made of wind, roaring with ethereal laughter. Nathan shielded his face and prayed for God’s protection. For the dream to end.
Coolness. The smell of damp grass, freshly cut.
He lowered his arms. They were bare, unburned. He looked down at his naked body. Around him, impressions of trees towered overhead like sentinels, blocking out the starlight. He was safe here. Shapes around him were slow to reveal themselves, more as outlines and suggestions.
Massive wings came into focus above. The light of a moon which he could not see revealed the calm faces of two angels standing guard overhead.
No, he realized, that wasn’t quite true. The angels didn’t notice he was there. They stared without seeing, facing each other in silent, intimate communication.
A voice, different than that of his father’s, more powerful, deep and without malice said, You are the caretaker.
“What?”
A wind picked up behind him. Nathan turned. The demon of smoke emerged from the blackness, its bright eyes covering him with fire and pain and his flesh bubbled and burned away—
He jolted awake and sat upright on the crooked mattress, hoping he hadn’t shouted as he’d done on the bus. Reverend Hayden had enough on his mind without worrying about the nightmares of a grown man. Nathan breathed quickly. Sweat dripped across his face, but he did not wipe it away. He waited for any sounds coming from the bedroom. Nothing. He took in a deeper breath, held it a moment and exhaled.
Why was he still having these dreams? He’d arrived in town. No more worried anticipation. They should have stopped.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lay back down. This time the details of his nightmare did not fade. In his memory, he stared at the shadowy outline of the angels’ wings—each stretching toward the other’s—thankful for the comfort they offered amid such a vivid, horrific vision. Dream, he corrected himself. Dream, not vision.
Chapter Seven
“Nathan!”
Beverly Dinneck swallowed her son in a hug and did not let go until Nathan pleaded for the right to breathe. His mother was a large woman and, as far as Nathan could remember, always smiling. She backed up a half step but continued holding him by the shoulders. “When you said you were chosen, I refused to believe it until I saw you in person!”
She finally released him and brushed at his shirt and tie. Nathan had decided this morning to dress his best, especially these first few weeks. He’d slowly work himself back into jeans and sneakers as he became more established in the parish.
His mother tried to restrain herself a moment longer, but could not. She attacked him with another choking hug.
From behind them, a man’s voice said, “I hope you’ve got more than one suit. By the time your mother is done with you, that tie’s going to be twisted beyond recognition.”
Nathan gave his mother another quick hug, then pulled himself free. He walked up to his father, leaning against the counter, and gave the man time to put down his coffee mug before embracing him. Art Dinneck’s hold on his son didn’t last as long as his wife’s but was nonetheless longer than usual. Before he gently pushed Nathan back a step he whispered, “Welcome home, Nate.”
“Thanks, Dad.” With great relief he realized the warmth of this place, his home, had not changed with the fact that he was now his parents’ pastor. It was a good feeling, something secure to hang on to. He added, “How come you’re not at work?”
Art fished out a second coffee mug from the cabinet as he answered. “Took the morning off. Left a message with them as soon as you called this morning. You almost missed me. Had my briefcase in hand.”
“Hope I don’t get you in trouble.”
“Naw.”
His mother rinsed out two cereal bowls in the sink—they’d been finishing a late breakfast when Nathan arrived. “Is Pastor Hayden giving you the morning off?”
“No, not really. We’re going to meet with the elders and a couple of committees. Some quiet introductions before my Grand Entrance on Sunday. I’ve got to be back at the church in about an hour.”
Art poured the coffee for his son and gestured for him to sit at the table. Nathan did.
“So, how is the old guy? He’s got be almost a hundred by now.”
Nathan smiled. “Not quite. In his eighties, though. He’s doing all right. No different than when you saw him on Sunday.”
Beverly made a noise at the sink and turned around. “Well, maybe if your father came to church more often, he would know that. Pastor Hayden asks about you every Sunday, Art.”
Nathan looked at him. “You’re not going to church? Since when? The only time I can remember you missing services was when you had your gallstones yanked out. Even then, you insisted we record the entire thing so you could listen to it in bed.”
Four slices of bread popped from the toaster. Nathan had already eaten, but his mother insisted he have something. She buttered them with the speed and efficiency born of routine and cut the slices diagonally the way Nathan liked them. Art made a dismissive gesture with his hand, much like Reverend Hayden, and took a slow sip of his coffee before answering.
“It’s not as easy at my age to get up early on Sundays.”
“You’re not that old, Dad. You’re only fifty... something.”
“Fifty-eight,” Beverly announced as she delivered the toast, two slices on each plate, and gave one to him and one to her husband. She went back to her small pile of dishes and said, “A little too old to be out all night with his new buddies, that’s for sure.”
Art gave his wife an irritated look. Nathan wasn’t sure what to make of that. His parents rarely argued.
“Forgive a man for wanting to socialize a little.”
Nathan finally sipped his coffee. It was strong, the way he remembered coffee in the Dinneck house. He took a bite of his toast. “Did you join the Shriners or something?”
Art shrugged. “No. Well, not really. It’s a group kind of like that, but less religious.”
Nathan tried to ignore the edge in his father’s voice when he said the word. As long as he could remember, the church was a cornerstone of the family. His father—and Nathan, too, when he was old enough—worked every spring and fall at the church fair. Art served as an usher when needed, and rarely missed Wednesday night Bible studies.
“What changed?”
Art raised an eyebrow over his mug. “Changed? How so?”
“What’s wrong with going to church?” He tried not to sound defensive, but he truly wanted to know. Apparently, so did his mother, for she turned around and waited for his answer.
“Well, I guess,” he sighed, gaze dar
ting back and forth across the table—an Art Dinneck habit as he tried to think of just the right words to say. “To be honest, I don’t know. It occurred to me at some point earlier this year that sometimes you have to step away from something, get some air, in order to know if you truly belong. Truly, well, believe. Besides,” he added, his smile weak, almost nervous, “you know how I hate to be predictable.”
Nathan didn’t know that. Until now, his parents had been the most predictable people he knew. Creatures of habit. It was a trait he recognized in himself, some genetic aversion to change passed on through the Dinneck bloodline. He looked to his mother for a reaction. Her expression had softened to one of worry. It came to her easily, as if it had taken prominence on her face lately.
Something was wrong. Maybe his father was drinking. This idea would not have occurred to him so quickly years ago, but in his short tenure in Orlando, he’d seen it happen more than once. All too common, as his Florida pastor Ron Burke would say. His father did look thinner, but not unhealthy. His eyes weren’t bloodshot or webbed as an alcoholic’s sometimes were.
“Sorry,” Nathan said finally, and forced a smile. “Professional curiosity. I assume you’ll come this weekend, though? Reverend Hayden wants to wait until Sunday before formally introducing me to everyone.”
Art didn’t reply right away. His expression tensed, almost looked like confusion. Beverly stepped forward and put a hand on the back of Nathan’s chair.
“We are absolutely going to be there. Tell me, does the mother of the pastor get a special seat with a brass name tag?”
Nathan reached up and took her hand. It was soft, and wet from the dishes. “I’ll work on it, Mom.” Looking back to his father he added, “Well?”
Art finally smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.” His smile never quite reached his eyes. Nathan had a feeling that this Sunday would be the only time Art Dinneck would attend, regardless of who was presiding. He wanted to ask more, but it was almost time to leave and he wanted the visit to end on a friendlier note.
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